Mommy's in the Lightning
by CleverAlibi
Summary: Before flying, Dean was afraid of thunderstorms. Chapter 2: Sam's always had a way of speaking without words. NOW UP: Ch. 3-After a shopping incident, Sam finds himself in possession of a soul again. It's not easy.
1. Baby Mine

**Hi there! Well, my last attempt at a non-sisfic oneshot was so well received (I say well received...it got three reviews, but I was excited!) that I decided to try again. This is actually a tweaked version of a chapter from my sisfic that I liked so much, I decided to turn it into a regular fic. The song (in French, with English subtitles) is available for your perusal on YouTube if you search 'Baby Mine French' (or even just 'Baby Mine'). Thanks again for reading! If this turns out well, I plan to introduce quite a few more boyfics (is that what I call them? I dunno...)**

**I'd trade an arm (my left arm) for them, but for now, they're not mine.**

**Hearts,**

**CA

* * *

**He was hiding in the bathtub when Daddy found him.

"Hey, Deano," he says in the voice that usually means Dean will have to finish his all of his chicken nuggets _before_ he drinks his milkshake. "Little dry for a bath, isn't it?"

Dean doesn't move from where he is, backed up under the drain, with his knees to his chest, and his chin to his knees, a wooden spoon clenched tightly in one fist. Just in case. "I'm not dirty, Daddy," he explains patiently.

"Ah," says John, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe. "Gonna sail somewhere, then?"

Dean peeks up, seriously considering the possibility, since Daddy had once told him that bathtubs were different than boats, but sometimes Daddy jokes. And sometimes he lies. He lied about Mommy being okay. It had been two months, one week and four days, and she still wasn't okay, would never be okay, would never be _here _again_. _

But Daddy's eyes are happy in the way that says he's joking (but not, Dean notices, the way they were before It happened), so Dean smiles. "No, Daddy. I—"

Then the thunder cracks again, and the windows tremble so hard, Dean is absolutely certain they will shatter and rain glass over Daddy and him, and the lightning will stab into the bathroom and fry them both.

Dean tries very hard not to cry, but he can feel his throat doing the burny thing that means he's not doing a very good job.

He expects Daddy to yell, because Dean is the big brother, and he has to watch out for Sammy, and he can't do that if he's crying, so he's surprised when Daddy walks over, and very gently pulls his towel-shield away, but lets him keep the spoon as he picks him up.

He knows he's too old, but he doesn't say anything, because he always feels better when Daddy's close and happy, and Daddy talks before Dean can say anything, anyway. He says, "C'mere, Deano. I wanna show you something."

Dean nods seriously, because lately when Daddy shows him anything, it's something Daddy says is very important, that he has to remember. "Where are we going?" he asks, for good measure.

"Outside," Daddy says, and says it so casually, Dean thinks he must be joking again.

But he's not. "Outside?"

"Outside."

"What about Sammy?"

"Sammy's sleeping," said Daddy. "This is big boy time, right?"

And Daddy looks at Dean, and the funny twisty feeling in his tummy goes away, and he's reminded of the times Mommy would let him stay up late and watch movies with Daddy and her, and even eat popcorn, even though he'd already brushed his teeth. Those were 'big boy times', too, and even though Dean loved Sammy, he loved those rare moments squeezed between Daddy and Mommy, giggling quietly, so they didn't wake Sammy up, too.

"Right," Dean says, and now he's smiling with Daddy.

Outside, the sky is purple, and when the lightning flashes, and when it does, it lights up the whole night. Dean is reminded of Mommy making mashed potatoes, her sharp grown-up knives and forks stabbing violently at the dark, pregnant flesh. It's enough to make him want to hide his face in Daddy's neck, even though he knows he shouldn't.

But Daddy still doesn't yell. Instead, he uses the gentle voice he only uses when Dean is sick, or Sammy is fussy, and he even puts his hand on Dean's forehead, like when he's checking to see if Dean is hot.

"Hey, Deano, c'mon, look at me." Daddy moves his hand from Dean's forehead to the back of his neck. "You're alright, buddy."

And because Daddy uses his gentle voice, Dean looks up…cautiously.

"Good job, Deano," Daddy says. "Now I want you to tell me what you think lightning is."

Dean doesn't realize this is a test, like Daddy sometimes gives (like in the morning, when Daddy asks Dean to remember the words he told Dean the night before that are in a different language called 'Latin'), so he says, "It's scary, Daddy." And he says it the same way he does when he knows he's right, like when Daddy asks him what number comes after seven.

Then Daddy laughs, and Dean smiles, because he doesn't hear Daddy do that very much since It happened. Daddy says, "Not quite. It's your mother. It's Mommy."

Now Dean is confused. He doesn't know if this is a test, or a joke, or maybe a lie, so he makes his face stay very still, and asks, "Mommy's in the lightning?"

Daddy doesn't laugh, or scold, like Dean thinks he might. He smiles, and says, "Not exactly. You know that camera Pastor Jim has?"

Dean nods solemnly. "I can't use it until I turn five and a half," he recites carefully.

"That's right," says Daddy. "And you know how it flashes when he takes pictures in the dark? Real quick, but real bright. Just like the lightning, right?"

"Yeah, but smaller."

"Well, Mommy's a lot big than Pastor Jim's little camera, right? She had to be to carry you around and sing your song."

"_Mon bébé_," says Dean, without waiting for a prompt. Mommy sang his lullaby every night before It happened, ever since he was born. He could probably sing it in his sleep, even if he didn't know what it meant, because it was also in another language, one Mommy called 'French', which was special, because it had nothing to do with the fries.

"That's right," said Daddy again. "_Baby Mine_." Daddy always said the song came from a movie Mommy liked a lot, even though it was about elephants. Daddy said Mommy really liked it because it was about a little boy, like Dean, looking for his mommy. Dean wanted it to be his favorite movie, too, but they'd lost Mommy's copy the same night they'd lost her.

"The lightning is like the flash from Pastor Jim's camera, Deano. It's Mommy looking for you in the dark from way up in the sky, so she can see how much you're growing up."

Dean's eyes went wide, because Daddy wouldn't lie about something like that. It made too much sense. "Really?"

"Really."

Dean turns to stare at the sky with wide, serious eyes. Then, without taking his eyes off the storm, Dean says, "Hey, Daddy?"

"What's up, Deano?"

"Do you think Mommy would be able to find me faster if I sang the song?"

Daddy is quiet for so long, Dean begins to think he'd said something bad, like when Sammy cries for Mommy at night. But before he could ask, Daddy says, "Yeah, Deano. Yeah, I do. You sing that song every time you see a little lightning, or another storm, or anything else that tries to scare you, ever, okay? Even if I'm not there, you remember Mommy is looking for you. You sing that song, and everything'll be okay."

Now Dean does look at Daddy, eyes wide again. "Daddy, why are you crying?" Dean feels close to tears himself—what had he said to make Daddy cry?

Daddy smiles, but it's the same smile he'd made at Pastor Jim after It happened, when all he'd said was, "It's okay. It's fine. Everything's fine," for two whole days.

"It's just…been a while since I heard your song, Deano."

Dean tilts his head to one side. "Do you miss the song, Daddy?"

"Yeah, Deano. I miss it a lot."

Dean is quite for a long time, thinking. He knew Daddy missed Mommy a whole lot, just like he did, just like even baby Sammy did. But he hadn't thought it was possible to miss a song, even though he now realized Dean missed it, too. Then he says, "Daddy, do you want me to sing the song?"

Dean heard Daddy swallow. "Yeah, Deano. I'd love that."

Dean made the sound with his throat that people made on TV when they were about to say something important. He turned back to the horizon just in time for the lightning to illuminate his mother's green eyes.

"_Mon bébé, si joli…_"

**xxxxx **

Fourteen years later, Sam would be confused when Dean had to leave the Blockbuster so suddenly, knocking over the bin of discount movie toys in his haste.

"Er, sorry, dude," Sam said to the kid behind the counter, tossing one of the stuffed elephants back into the basket.

_**The End.

* * *

**_

**PS-I'm thinking of adding a second chapter, either what happens after Blockbuster, or else a scene with Dean and shapeshifter baby, or maybe Dean and Ben...At some point, the lullaby is gonna come up. Thoughts?**

**More hearts,**

**CA**


	2. Silence Like an Eggshell

***phew!* Sorry this took so long to get out. I've been between about three different chapters both for this, and some other stories. In my holiday travels, I ran into a lengthy delay last night at the airport, and just sort of threw this together. It's a little hasty, but I plan to edit once I'm a little further from it. **

**Anyway, in response to the 'many' requests I got for a second chapter, here it is! Enjoy, and let me know what you think! Third chapter, anyone, or shall I lay it to rest while I'm ahead?**

**That said, I am *way* behind on responding to my reviews, and I don't even have a good excuse save for business. I'm on it like paint on painted things, promise!  
**

**Bunches o' love-(oh. They ain't mine.)  
**

**~CA

* * *

**

* * *

"Seriously, dude?"

Sam's voice is too loud—_too loud_—in the silence like an eggshell, brittle, and cramped, and gloriously protective. Dean is suddenly aware of his own breathing, of feeling like a newborn bird suddenly exposed to the harshness of a new world. He is alone; mother is gone.

"I mean, I know you have a thing with heights, but elephants? _Stuffed _elephants?"

It isn't that Sam is waiting for an answer, but somewhere beyond the painful over-stimulation, Dean knows that if Sam doesn't hear something soon, he'll start asking questions, and hell if Dean is ready—if he'll ever be ready—to answer.

"Dude, the store closes in twenty minutes, and you still haven't picked a movie," Dan says finally, trying to remember how to put space between the words. _Breathe. Just breathe._ "And I know Samantha is all about _The English Patient_, but I, for one, have some _cajones_."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Jerk."

Dean knows he should answer, but for the life of him, he can't remember with what.

* * *

_Tu es mon doux trésor_

_C'est toi seul que j'adore_

_Toi, la raison de ma vie, bébé joli_

_Mon tout petit_

_Mon tout petit…_

For the innocence, the perceived tenderness of the word, they spark him to life like a nightmare. There's a cold sweat crawling down his back, and his heart's racing like the time Sammy'd gotten lost on one of his earlier hunts.

The funny thing is he doesn't know the words. Oh, he knows the lyrics, could sing them back and forth all day long. But he doesn't know the _words_. He can guess some of them, of course. _Mon bébé,_ for example, is easy enough. But 'you are my ducks tressor' didn't seem quite right in any language, let alone French.

He wonders if maybe he's restless, and that's why he hasn't been able to sleep lately. Not the dreams, not the lyrics running through his head in an inscrutable loop in the middle of the night. He's just restless; bored. Dad's been gone for over a week on some hunt, and it kills Dean not to be with him. But Sammy got hurt last month, and Dad made him stay behind to watch out for his little brother, even though Sam, at fifteen years old, is anything but little, and more than okay with being left by himself.

Sam, he thinks. Sam, his freaky genius of a brother, would laugh if he knew big brother tough-as-nails Dean was kept awake by a kiddie lullaby he couldn't even understand. And he thinks Sam is beginning to figure it out, too, his sleeplessness, because he's bitching less about the little things, like dinner, and not being able to go to school.

If he can sleep, Dean knows, if he can just sleep, everything will go back to normal. The solution he knows instinctively, so he sits up, pulls on his boots, grabs the keys, and tiptoes out to the car.

* * *

Sam is awake when he gets back, awake and waiting, with that look on his face that says he'd be crying if no one were there. He probably was, thinks Dean, but he can't anymore.

Sam stands up when Dean walks into the kitchen, and looks so relieved, Dean finds the energy to feel badly about leaving. But he says only, "Felt the pea under your mattress, Princesss?"

"You could have left a note," Sam says in bitchy-Sam voice.

"I was gone twenty minutes."

Sam doesn't reply, and Dean rolls his eyes, trying to conceal the package under his right arm. "Whatever. Sorry," he says. Then, looking at his brother, he sighs. "I'm sorry, Sammy. Really."

Sam studies him for a moment, then nods, seeming appeased. "When's the last time you slept? Are you okay?"

"Just went to get something to eat," Dean lies smoothly. He hates when Sam does that, uses his freaky perception to burrow into Dean's heart and make him want to spill, even when talking is the last thing he can imagine. "Don't know if you noticed, but you threw back, like, half the food for the rest of the week in one sitting, Sasquatch."

Sam doesn't believe this, but knows better than to pry. He gives Dean a look that says, "Wake me up if it's serious," then actually says, "Going to bed."

Dean only nods and waits until he hears the regular, gentle snores, to put in the movie.

* * *

The DVD comes in three languages; Dean doesn't hesitate to pick the right one, instead skipping ahead to the right part before settling down on the couch with a beer and a pillow. He's played the song twenty-six times before he finally gives in to the pull of sleep.

* * *

In the morning, he's surprised to find the car packed. Dad is back and exhausted, but with the intrinsic satisfaction that means the hunt went well. They're off to North Carolina, he explains. Everything's ready; Sam's loading the car. He'd told Dad not to wake Dean, and Dad, still reeling from last night's victory, had complied.

Dean doesn't understand until later, when Dad is in the car, honking impatiently.

Then Sam approaches Dean with his own package, wrapped in a plastic Target bag.

Dean accepts, confused. "It ain't even my birthday," he jokes, but the question is clear: 'What's this for?'

Sam only shrugs in that anything-but-verbose way of his. He's always had a way of communicating without words, Dean knows. Freaky perceptive. As usual.

"You sing in your sleep," he said simply. "And you're afraid of elephants." Then he goes out to the car.

Dean stares after him for a second, then unwraps his gift.

It's several minutes before Dean is composed enough to head out to the car. He doesn't say anything, just shoots Sam the briefest of glances, climbs into the front seat, and pulls away.

Under his arm, he's got his coat. Wrapped inside the coat is the third edition of the Webster's French-to-English pocket dictionary.

Sam always had a way of speaking without words. Suddenly, the eggshell silence no longer seems so fragile.

_**The End**_


	3. Remember

***Phew* Thanks for waiting for me! Had to finish up the semester, but now I'm on break, so I have a little more time to write! I typically like to avoid anything that goes too much against canon, but I started this story a month or so ago, when I was feeling kinda hopeless about soulless Sam, and I thought this would be a good way to wrap up the story. Also, tomorrow is my birthday, and I figured a new chapter or two would be a decent way to celebrate. =P So, lemme know what you think, and thanks for reading!**

**NOTE: The orange juice thing is in reference to another OS(ish) I did called, 'Orange Juice and a Million Balloons' (to be updated tomorrow...no publishing two stories in one day!). You don't have to read that one to understand this.  
**

**OH! And if I haven't gotten around to replying to your review yet, so sorry! I'm working on it, promise. If anyone knows of a way to check replied reviews or something, I'd be much obliged. =D**

**I own some things. A computer. A guitar. Not the Winchesters. *sigh***

**CA

* * *

**I remember the nightmares.

I remember them in sharp, vivid colors, too nauseatingly bright for names, the way you might remember being afraid of something in your closet when you were a kid, or the way you felt at the tallest crest of your first roller coaster: it's a kind of fear that is still very real, still sickening if you focus hard enough, but distant enough to be shaken with a little well-placed willpower. Not quite false, but nearly imagined. Too terrible to be real.

Maybe it's this, or maybe I still know Sammy—or, considering, maybe it's Sammy I remember, not the nightmares. One way or another, I know they're coming before they come, so I can be there, the first thing he sees when he awakes with a scream.

"Sammy. Sammy, it's okay. I'm here."

"Dean?" He winces; so do I. His voice is raw from hours of screaming. It's been like this since this afternoon, but at least he's gotten a few minutes of quasi-sleep, broken up as it is.

"Who else, Gigantor?"

His eyes are huge, scared, like they were when we were kids and he started worrying about Dad, and I can see he's still looking for me in the dark, looking right through me like I'm not here. I frown. "You still hallucinating, man?"

He doesn't answer. "There any water?"

"Nah, we ran out while you were asleep. Course there's water, Sasquatch. C'mon, sit up."

He shifted ever so slightly, then shot me a look that took me half a second to read: _I can't, but I don't remember how to ask for help_.

So maybe he's still a Winchester.

I pretend I didn't see his look, because if I can't save anything else, I'm gonna save Sammy's pride, dammit, and instead reach behind him and maneuver the pillows 'til he's sitting up by himself. And then I pour him a glass of water and hold it while he drinks, because right after Sammy's pride, I'm into saving our glassware. It's expensive, and I'm not sure when we'll pass another TJ Maxx.

But when he wraps his hand around mine to steady the glass, I can feel how much his temperature has risen. I guess I shouldn't be surprised—a year without sleep probably played hell on his immune system—but I can't say I'm thrilled. The only thing worse than an emotionally-ravaged Sammy is a feverish emotionally ravaged Sammy.

"So, when were you gonna tell me you were sick, dude?"

Sam smirks ruefully. "When the nightmares stopped," he says sarcastically enough I know the delirium hasn't set in yet, but honestly enough I know he must be feeling it somewhere, if not yet in his body.

"Yeah, well," I say, and I have to pause, because somehow Sam-in-pain always makes it harder for me to speak, "let's not wait around for one to get worse while the other festers. Sound like a plan, Rip?"

* * *

It gets worse before it gets better. Again, no surprise, just frustration. Sam's so exhausted that every time he wakes up screaming, he falls back asleep again almost before I can get any liquids in him, only to wake up again, twenty minutes later. The shivering isn't helping, either, and I'm pretty sure we passed the dehydration mark hours ago. So, I'm sitting there, staring at the shivering lump of flesh on Sam's bed, trying to decide whether I should risk leaving him to run to the drug store, or bundle him up and take him with me. I'd tried to get him to drink some orange juice—vitamin C and all—but he didn't want any, and after his earlier…episode at the store today, I can't blame him.

In any case, I had just made my decision, and was working out how to get him to the car, when he sat up all of the sudden, eyes wide, face pouring sweat like he'd stuck it under a sink head.

"Sammy?"

"Dean."

"What is it?"

He managed something that sound like, "Mmgbrfl" before he produced to…'Mgbr' all over himself and the bedsheets.

I winced in sympathy for his throat, then said, "Better, Spewy?"

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and tried to stand. I made it there first and shoved the wastebasket by the wall under his head just in time for round two. He stumbled on shaky legs, too spent to even hold himself up; I looped an arm around his waist and lowered us both to the other twin bed.

"Think you got anything left?"

He moaned only moaned in answer.

"I'll take that as a no. Alright, Sasquatch, we're on bed two of two here, so if you feel like you got a round three coming on, lemme know, or else we're gonna be sleeping in the car. And you better not puke in my car."

It was a lie, and not even a good one. Sammy wouldn't spend his first night of sleep in over a year in the Impala, even if it was my baby. Not if I had anything to say about it. We'd find another room, another motel, another state if we—I—had to. Besides, do you know how hard it is to wash vomit out of leather?

I help him under the covers, because he's still shaking to rattle the walls, then start to go over and clean up his mess. Before I make it two steps, he makes a sound that solders my joints, paralyzes my muscles, and freezes my blood. I can't move. I can't breathe.

Then he does it again.

"Dean…" It's somewhere between a whimper of pain and a sigh of defeated resignation. It punches a hole clean through my gut.

"What…what is it, Sammy? Are you gonna be sick again? Do you need water? Are you cold? Does—?"

"Dean, it hurts." The words set me on edge like I've been lowered onto the blade of a knife. I'm afraid to move, lest I be sawed in two.

"I know, Sammy, I know. Lemme clean up here, then I'll—"

"No, Dean. I mean…it _hurts_."

"What, Sam? What hurts? What can I do?"

"It…" he pauses, considering, and the knife inches into my back, my spine. "Everything. Everything hurts, Dean. I…I remember. I _feel_."

Oh.

I go to my knees beside his bed. His hair is matted with sweat, and his every muscle is painfully tense, and he's looking at me with this heart-wrenching combination of desperation and hopelessness.

"Dean…"

"I know, Sammy. I know." I put out a hand to push his long-ass hair out of his face, and don't care that my fingers are now sticky with sweat, hardly even notice it, because Sammy is back. And hurting. "It'll stop, alright? We're gonna get through this. You and me, dude. I'm not leaving you."

He says something then, but he's so out of it, all I really get is, "won't stop…" and, "…wanna sleep."

"Then sleep, Sam. You'll be okay. I'm right here."

"I can't, Dean!" This part I get, loud and clear, and that hopeless desperation is back, forcing me onto that blade's edge again, easing me into painful, endless oblivion.

"Shhh…" I soothe, because I can't think of anything else to say. "Yes, you can. Close your eyes. Just relax, Sammy. Don't think. Don't look. Just listen to me. And relax."

I don't know how long we're sitting there, me whispering to Sam, him shuddering and whimpering fretfully, but dutifully keeping his eyes shut. He doesn't sleep, not at first, so I think he probably recognizes it before I do. What I see first is that he's stopped shaking, stopped moaning. And when he talks, it's clear he's half asleep, or closer than he's been in a year.

"It's Mom's song," he says, words slurred.

"Mm?" I reply, half in a trance myself.

"The one…from the movie. With the elephant…when we were kids…"

"What…what about it, Sammy?" I'm frozen again. I don't even know what to think, what to say.

"You were humming it."

"Oh." I've never been glad to see Sam sick or hurt, but this is probably as close as I'll ever come. At least he can't see how red I'm sure my face gets. "I didn't know. Sorry."

"No," he says, stiffening suddenly, and I wonder if somehow, even half asleep, the nightmares are starting up again.

"Sam? You alright?"

"Keep going, Dean."

"What?"

"Humming. Please. _Please_."

"I—"

"It…doesn't hurt, Dean. Not when you sing the song." The words are more focused, but softer, further away again. I'm losing him to sleep. Finally. "I…I _feel_ again. I feel…"

"W-what, Sammy? What do you feel?"

"Everything." It's so soft, it's nearly a snore. But it's not the tortured sound of pain that he feels anymore. Not right now. "I remember. I feel…" And then he's gone.

It doesn't matter. I got the message.

* * *

My name is Dean Winchester. I've fought werewolves and vampires, demons and angels. I've been to heaven and hell and everywhere in between. I've died more times than I can count, and I was named after a friggin' _gun_.

And I will sing her Disney-borne lullaby until the end of days if it means my little brother remembers what love is.

What are you gonna do about it?

_**The End.**_


End file.
